


Coffee, Les Pauls, and Lucky Strikes

by caitlinnlouwho



Series: The One Where They Own a Coffee Shop [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bickering, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Cosette wants to be an ami, Enjolras and Grantaire are idiots and can't figure themselves out, Gen, Humor, Journalist!Enjolras, M/M, Musician!Grantaire, Pining, coffee shop AU, even Cosette, shenanigans ensue, they like to cuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitlinnlouwho/pseuds/caitlinnlouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire refuses to admit that he wants a boyfriend. Especially not that he wants the tall, blond journalist that seems to frequent his coffee shop. Not at all. Their friends, however, have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Grantaire does not remember brewing blonde roast this morning

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the Coffee Shop AU with some other things thrown in! Enjoy, kudos, bookmark, etc. I don't have a beta and proofread everything myself so constructive comments are always appreciated!

"I was only trying to help, 'Taire. It's not my fault you get pissy when you haven't been laid." 

“Eponine, if you write about my relationship status on the menu board one more time, so help me God—“

“Excuse me?” Grantaire’s rant abruptly cuts off on his tongue, as he eyes the tall blond man standing before him. He attempts to ignore the fact that he’s utterly covered in flour and whipped cream next to the impeccable suit staring him down, and pastes on his most charming grin.

“Welcome to the Musain, what can I do you for?” he rumbles, and the stranger looks a little baffled, muttering something about being in the 1950s. _Fuck._ As much as Grantaire likes to assume the brooding musician persona, he manages to put his foot in his mouth quite a lot. He bites his lip, trying not to stare too hard at the statue’s jawline as he punches the order into the cash register. Of _course_ he’d be ordering fair-trade coffee with vanilla soymilk. Of fucking course.

“If you have blonde roast, that would be preferable.”

“Lucky you walked in then,” Grantaire drawls, unable to catch his words before they pour out. “I don’t recall brewing any this morning.” _Fuck redux._

The stranger’s eyebrows rise in amusement, and he collects his coffee with a slim hand, making his way to a booth in the back and setting up his laptop. It takes all of Grantaire’s resolve not to immediately sprint to the back, instead managing to leisurely stroll into the kitchen, finding Cosette, the café’s third co-owner, icing a batch of cinnamon rolls.

“We have a problem,” Grantaire sighs, leaning on the counter and snagging one of the rolls for himself.

Cosette glances up, blowing her bangs out of her face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a very attractive man—god—thing here and I just fucked it up royally but he’s like a fucking statue and—“ Cosette silences him, peering around the corner into the dining room.

“Shit,” Cosette mutters, rubbing flour off her nose and turning to face Grantaire.

“Why shit?”

“The god,” she groans, “is my brother.” Grantaire tries not to shit his pants then and there, instead opting for spitting out his bite of cinnamon roll.

“For God’s sake, Grantaire, just tell me if you think my baking sucks,” Cosette says crossly.

“How did I not know you had a brother?”

“For starters, he’s five years older than me and moved out before I started high school. But, I thought everyone knew.” She shrugs, brushing past Grantaire and making her way to the front.

“You could at least tell me his name!”

“It’s Enjolras. And before you ask, he’s a journalist.” Cosette hops over the counter and erases Eponine’s handiwork, blowing a kiss to her brother.

Grantaire just stands there for a moment, thoughts whirling through his mind.

“I need a fucking cigarette.” He pulls out his grubby green lighter, fishes a Lucky Strike out of his pocket and storms out the back door, trying to ignore the fact that his back is indirectly pressed to Enjolras' through the bricks. 

~~~

Enjolras is trying desperately to ignore the fact that the barista is possibly-maybe-but-probably-not flirting with him, the fact that said barista has rather nice tattoos, and the fact that he somehow finds the grubby hipster look to be not entirely repulsive on… Grantaire. He mentally awards himself brownie points for remembering to look at the nametag for once, and downs about half of his coffee in one gulp. 

He sits in the corner on his laptop, editing his latest article and attempting to ignore everyone else for a good hour. 

"Hi, brother." Cosette flits over, plopping into the chair across from him, and Enjolras smiles. "So nice of you to finally visit my place of business," she teases, craning her neck to see what's on his laptop.

"No peeking."

Cosette groans, slumping back in her chair. "You never let me look." 

"Well this article is top-secret until publication, so my hands are tied,  _alouette._ " His phone chirps, and he silences his sister's protests with a finger. "Courfeyrac says you're welcome to dinner tonight. Apparently he's bringing one of his friends from class and thinks you two would get along." 

Cosette groans again. "Courf is always trying to set me up." 

"Only because he thinks of you as a sister as well and wants you to be happy. Never mind the fact that your actual brother 'respects your privacy'," he adds sarcastically. 

"But of course," she grins, hopping up and snatching Enjolras' empty coffee cup. "Refill?" 

"You're the best." 

When Cosette returns the cup, he tries not to acknowledge the odd feeling in his stomach as he glances back to the counter (and the man behind it), picking up his phone. 

**To: Courfeyrac [3:15 PM]**

_Cosette said yes to dinner. We've got a bigger problem._

**To: Enjolras [3:17 PM]**

_Which is?_

**To: Courfeyrac [3:18 PM]**

_A) Just come with me to the Musain tomorrow. You'll see. B) This 'friend' you're bringing home for her better be an improvement upon the last._

**To: Enjolras [3:22 PM]**

_A) That's what excellent roommates are for,_ _n'est-ce pas?_

_B) I'm ignoring that._

 


	2. In which Courfeyrac plays matchmaker

Cosette apologetically arrives at Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s apartment thirty minutes late with freshly made cheesecake.

“Sorry, guys. I wanted to make dessert for tonight and then Grantaire caught the oven on fire before his gig and—“

Enjolras’ ears perk up at the thought of him and he ignores the rest of his sister’s apology. _He’s a musician, too? He probably has girls (and boys) throwing themselves at him. No reason for him to flirt with you._  The corners of his mouth turn down, and he stalks back into the kitchen.

Courfeyrac laughs at Cosette’s flustered expression, taking the cheesecake and pecking her on the cheek. “No worries, chèrie. Marius, your brother and I had plenty to talk about.” He gestures to the table, where his guest is seated.

 _Not bad,_ Cosette muses, and offers her hand. “I’m Cosette, but if you’ve been with these two for as long as they say you probably knew that.”

He laughs nervously, standing up. “I’m Marius.”

Cosette smiles wryly, and it takes all of Courfeyrac’s resolve not to sprint gleefully into the kitchen as the two sit back down.

“Enj. I think this one is a winner.”

“You say that every time, Courf,” Enjolras hums, lazily poking at the saucepan bubbling away on the stove.

Courfeyrac feigns offense, pressing his hand dramatically to his heart. “I say no such thing, O Judgmental One.” Enjolras stares at the pan, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, and Courfeyrac hops up on the counter next to him, lowering his voice. “I’m serious. Pontmercy is very charming and very good at what he’s planning to do with his life. Besides, I will kick his ass in a nanosecond if I ever find out he’s treating Cosette like shit.”

“I know. There’s a reason I didn’t say no to this in the first place, Courf.”

“Well now that your sister is settled, let’s get onto your problem,” Courfeyrac says, fishing a spare noodle out of the pot.

“First, get your hands out of my damn carbonara. Second, he’s apparently a co-owner of the Musain with Cosette. I guess I’ve been an absentee brother lately, considering I barely knew she owned a café until two weeks ago.”

“That can be changed, especially since said sister works with Monsieur Man-Candy,” Courfeyrac cackles. Enjolras valiantly fights the urge to hit him in the head with his wooden spoon.

“Robes-fucking- _pierre_ , Courfeyrac. No nicknames, I beg you.” 

“Fine. Either way, I’m coming with you tomorrow to assess the situation and basically tell you what to do.”

Enjolras huffs. “I can flirt just fine, thank you. I don’t think he’s interested, anyway. My entire demeanor just screams ‘difficult’.”

Courfeyrac laughs, grabbing two of the pasta-laden plates. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Enjolras grabs the other two and heads back into the dining room, trying to ignore the fact that Cosette and Marius have scooted closer to each other, deep in conversation about some television show that Enjolras has barely heard of. Since he’d already grilled Marius before Cosette arrived and Courfeyrac is on the best of terms with the two, dinner passes pleasantly.

“This was wonderful, but I’ve got to go,” Cosette says an hour later, draining her wineglass. “The Musain can get a bit rowdy on gig nights, so I need to go make sure Eponine hasn’t started any fights.” She winks at Marius, choosing to ignore the pink blush that spreads across his cheeks and gives Courfeyrac and Enjolras each a peck before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

It barely clicks shut before the two roommates are looking expectantly at Marius.

“I really like her,” he says breathlessly, and Enjolras smiles wolfishly.

“Good answer. Courf, you know what to do.” Since his roommate always insisted on playing matchmaker with his little sister, Enjolras devised a method of ‘following up’ very early on, which usually consists of Courfeyrac doing all the dirty work. 

“Marius, she works at the Café Musain. I would suggest that you drop by in a couple days.”

“Thanks, Courfeyrac,” he says, and makes his way into the foyer. “Really. She is something. Plus the food was excellent.”

“We know,” Courfeyrac says proudly, ushering him out. “See you in class tomorrow.” Enjolras throws a nod of his head to the door and a carefully chosen finger to his roommate.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Courf.”

“Ah shit. You know what I meant, Enj.”

“Of course,” Enjolras chuckles, opening his laptop and flopping onto the couch. His phone buzzes.

**To: Enjolras [10:21 PM]**

_Thank you for not killing this one. I like him._

**To: Cosette [10:23 PM]**

_You’re welcome, alouette. Don’t get in any barfights tonight, okay?_

**To: Enjolras [10:27 PM}**

_No promises. x_

He tries to ignore the small green monster clawing its way into his stomach, instead managing to tear through four articles before calling it a night.

After all, he has a lot to not think about.


	3. In which Grantaire sketches and Cosette & Eponine hatch a plan

By the time Grantaire arrives home, Combeferre is already propped on the couch with his usual mug of tea clasped in his hands.

“Hey, ‘Taire.”

Grantaire grunts, slumping into the kitchen and adding a healthy amount of brandy to his own tea. He’d been distracted and pissy tonight—he’d played well, he thought, but when it came to punching hecklers he’d had a disgusting lack of self-control.

Combeferre cranes his neck, eyes scanning his brooding roommate for injuries. “I hope you’re not hiding anything.”

“Nope, the bastard was kind enough to keep it to my face tonight.”

Combeferre sighs, fixing him with that parental glare that Grantaire hates so, so much. “When are you going to learn, ‘Taire? I’m worried one day you’ll come home in pieces.”

Grantaire’s heart warms at that; although he and Combeferre seemed unlikely roommates (a med student and an arts major hardly flew in the same circles at their graduate school), they’d managed to form a close bond. Combeferre appreciated Grantaire’s wordless-when-necessary, calming presence, and Grantaire appreciated his roommate’s concern and ability to boil water.

“But you’re fine? Nothing I need to look at or fix?”

“I’m fine, ‘Ferre,” he replies, shoving his way onto the couch. He takes his sketchbook and begins to draw, tongue sticking between his lips as he concentrates. Combeferre goes back to reading his medical journal, eyes occasionally darting to the fast scrawls on the pages that Grantaire is flinging across the apartment.

“New muse?”

“I think so,” Grantaire mumbles, trying to get the jawline _just right_. He jumps when Combeferre coughs expectantly, and cringes at the black mark his reaction left on the face he’s doodling.

“His name’s Enjolras, he came into the café today, and he’s Cosette’s brother,” he says, still drawing away.

“I’ve heard of him.” Combeferre smirks behind his glasses.

“Fucking hell, how has everyone met him but me?”

“Because I have a med class with Joly weekday mornings and he introduced us one day. Enjolras is rather fond of consulting him for medical advice rather than a fully licensed doctor.”

“What do I do?” Grantaire asks flatly. “Cosette said he’s a journalist. Point one, he wouldn’t be interested in a lowly art student-turned-barista and point two, he’s one of those types that has everyone at his feet and is completely unaware of it.”

Combeferre bites his lip. “You need to interact with him more. And try not to put your foot in your mouth.”

Grantaire groans internally at that morning’s fiasco. “Too fucking late.”

Combeferre decides not to ask. “How about you just test the waters? See if he takes the bait?”

“But what if he doesn’t? ‘Ferre, I don’t think you understand that I really have a boner for this guy.”

“Then you’ll have to woo him with your devilish charm and vocal cords of gold. But do _not,_ under any circumstances, rush this.”

“I won’t,” Grantaire almost whines around his split lip. “Can you just come to the Musain tomorrow and help me? Slow is not exactly my _modus operandi_.” Combeferre tries not to laugh at him, looking so innocent with his pleading eyes and bruised face.

“Of course. My class is out by two. Now either shut the fuck up or go in your room so I can concentrate.”

“Bless you, ‘Ferre.” His gratitude is met with a pillow to the back as he retreats to his room, grabbing his favorite guitar. He hums as chord patterns make themselves out of his fingertips. A little extra practice could never hurt.

Besides, he’s got a lot to think about.

* * *

 

By the time Grantaire arrives at the Musain, looking decidedly more put together than usual, Cosette is humming happily in the back, preparing the daily bakery case while Eponine is actually writing food prices on the menu board.

“You’re not vandalizing our board with tales of my woefully barren love life, Ep? I’m shocked,” he says, feigning shock in order to clamp down the butterflies in his stomach. Eponine growls, throwing a piece of chalk at him.

“Well, since you acted like such a baby last time—“

“Stop it, you two,” Cosette hisses. “I’m expecting someone today and I want to impress him.” She smooths down her apron and bangs the case shut.

Eponine raises an eyebrow. “Who could that be?”

“I don’t think you’d know him. He’s a friend of Courfeyrac’s.” Cosette says, hoisting a plate of croissants onto the front counter. Eponine purses her lips for a moment.

“Is it Marius Pontmercy?” she asks, leaning against the fridge.

“Well shit, I guess you do know him,” Cosette laughs. Eponine shrugs.

“He goes to ABC meetings and kind of skulks in the back. That’s honestly how I know all of those guys.”

“ABC--?”

“It’s Enjolras’ social justice brigade,” Eponine begins, and Grantaire feels his heart swoop in his chest again. “Christ, he doesn’t tell you anything, does he?” she chuckles.

Cosette’s eyes narrow, and she lets out a huff. “I guess not. Little fucker. I’d better tell Papa to keep an eye on him.”

“He’ll be so pissed, Cosette.”

“I know,” she cackles. “That’s what he gets for not introducing me to Marius earlier. And for not telling me about the meetings. He knows I like to debate.”

Eponine barks out a laugh. "I don't think he even realized Marius was there. He gets so caught up in his speeches that he barely notices people sitting right in front of him." 

Grantaire’s palms begin to sweat, and he heads out back, mumbling nonsense about having a cigarette before he turns into a human puddle. The girls exchange a glance, unspoken guesswork bouncing between them.

“The answer to that question is yes, Ep. He’s finally seen my brother.” Eponine’s hands fly up to cover her mouth and she bounces up and down.

“Cosette, you realize what this means,” she squeals, grateful that there aren’t any customers in the dining room yet.

“I know, I know. We have to get them together.”

“But we can’t make it look like we are.”

“Under no circumstances can they find out, Ep. Enjolras thinks I’ve hung the damn moon but he would kill me if he knew we were meddling.”

They clink their coffee cups in agreement, and wait for the day to begin.


	4. In which the two give each other nicknames

It gets to be nearly half past two o’clock before anything interesting begins to happen. Combeferre shows up, face flushed and hair mussed.

“Class got out late, did I miss anything?” he asks breathlessly, dumping his bag onto the barstool next to him.

Eponine shakes her head, pushing his usual order across the counter. “Nothing yet, Captain Obvious.” Combeferre begins to protest, but Eponine shoves a beignet into his mouth. “We’re trying to make it look like we’re not meddling.”

“Mmph— _meddling_?”

“You know, just making sure everything goes according to fate, ‘Ferre. Just start studying or something. They’ll get suspicious.”

Combeferre grunts disapprovingly around the last bit of beignet, but opens his textbook anyway. Eponine’s eyes dart to the window, and she manages to catch Cosette’s attention.

“It’s go time, lark.”

Cosette nods and heads into the dining room as Eponine deafeningly screams across the building.

“’Taire! Can you help me with the espresso machine? It’s stuck again.” She hears an assortment of colorful swears as Grantaire rounds the corner.

“Fuckin’ oven is acting up, why do you even let me bake anyt—“ he trails off as he sees who’s about to enter the shop. “Nope,” he says, defeated, and Eponine shoots a panicked glance at Cosette.

“Oh no you don’t,” the blonde says firmly, Grantaire’s arms pinwheeling as she drags him back behind the partition. “If the machine breaks, we’re screwed.” Dropping her voice, she added, “And you are not going to pull that nervous puppy shit again. I can confirm that my brother is in fact human. Just fucking talk to him and you’ll be fine.”

Grantaire downs an espresso and ducks under the counter as Enjolras and Courfeyrac step into the café. Courfeyrac slides onto the stool next to Combeferre, elbowing Enjolras with a wolfish smile. Enjolras fixes him with an icy glare, going over to the register.

Grantaire swallows hard and pops up behind the register, pretending that he was in no way hiding from Enjolras. “Hello again, Apollo.” _Apollo. Really? Grantaire, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes._

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Greek mythology? I’m impressed. I would have expected an ‘Afternoon, shitface’ from you,” he says, teasingly.

Grantaire shrugs, deciding that his usual pissy demeanor should test whether or not Enjolras is actually worth his time. He refused to admit to himself how badly he wants the test to work, and how hard his stomach is flipping looking at Enjolras’ ass in those trousers. “Well, I would have settled for something else but someone else took William Hearst today,” he snarks coolly. _Brilliant work, Grantaire. If he understands the reference, he’s a keeper._

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, and a wry smirk of displeasured amusement colors his lips. “Very clever, Mr. Pulitzer. Same as last time please. How did you know I was a journalist?”

Grantaire wills his jaw not to drop open, and shrugs again as he starts to make Enjolras’ coffee. _Same as last time, like I’d actually remember his fuckin’ order. Of course I would._  “Your sister mentioned it. Political journalism, yes?” He waves Enjolras’ credit card away and passes the cup to him.

Enjolras hums an affirmative, sipping at his coffee. “It’s slightly more substantial than the regular tabloid trash. I also run a political action group on the side. It’s called the Friends of the ABC.”

“Eponine has mentioned it,” Grantaire says, and Eponine makes a disgusting face at him from the bar.

“Well, you seem like the type that would have a field day tearing people’s arguments to shreds.” Grantaire doesn’t even attempt to argue this, and Enjolras uncaps Grantaire’s marker, writing an address around the snake tattoo on Grantaire’s arm. “Meetings are every Wednesday night at the Corinth. We need all the support we can get, especially with election season coming up. I’d— _We’d_ love to have you there,” he finishes, a little lamely, and strides over to Courfeyrac.

“Ready to go?”

Courfeyrac nods, sliding off his chair and grabbing his bag. “Let’s move, chief.”

Enjolras waves goodbye to Grantaire, calling to him as he leaves. “Eight PM sharp. Don’t be late. God knows some people’s arguments—“ throwing a pointed glance at Courfeyrac—“could use some opposition.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good, R.”

The door swings shut and Combeferre just grins. “Heh.”

“What is that supposed to mean, ‘Ferre?” Grantaire crosses his arms, looking down at the address, and he feels like he’s suffocating in the best way.

“You just gave each other nicknames.”

Grantaire groans. “Of everything you could have been watching, ‘Ferre, you chose that?”

Combeferre shrugs, “I’m only helping. Which I don’t think you even need in the first place. You had everything perfectly under control from what I gathered. Plus he was eating it up with a spoon.”

“There’s no fucking way.”

“Body language,” Combeferre nods smartly. “All the cues were there. Google it, I promise I’m not bullshitting you. And come to the meeting tomorrow.”

Cosette, from across the room where Marius had entered and sat down, shouts to the two. “I’m coming too! I don’t give a shit what my brother says about it. Sorry,” she says to Marius, who looks a little scandalized.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, wincing at the bruises on his face from the previous night. “Fine,” he says doubtfully.

_There’s no way in hell this is actually going to work._

So he goes home that night and takes the bottle of scotch into his room. If Combeferre hears him staying up late drinking and slamming chords on his guitar, he makes no mention of it the next morning.

Grantaire wakes up to a text from his roommate.

**To: Grantaire [7:28 AM]**

_Don’t forget. 8 PM._

**To: Combeferre [8:39 AM]**

_I won’t. Now shut the fuck up and let me sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this update took a little longer, I was busy with work this week! Also: The Hearst/Pulitzer bit was a reference to the yellow journalism feud in the late 1800s/early 1900s. Thank you so much for sticking with this fic!


	5. In which Les Amis de l'ABC is complete

True to his word, Grantaire arrives at Corinth at precisely 7:55 PM. Flicking the last bit of ash from his cigarette butt, he runs a hand through his hair and shuffles to the back room. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are conferring at the far table while Eponine, Cosette, Marius, and Gavroche (Eponine’s kid brother) occupy another. He recognizes Joly, wringing his hands while a bald man and two redheads listen attentively. In the other corner sits a man with strawberry-blond braids, notebook propped open on his knees and eyes closed dreamily.

He almost shits himself when Enjolras comes up behind him, looking both divine and terrifying (and much better than Grantaire) in one of his sharply creased suits.

“Good to see you, R,” he says coolly, breezing past and dumping papers on Eponine’s table. Clearing his throat, he hops up onto the last open table and begins to speak.

“Good evening, friends new and old. While I think we’ll all agree that the frequency of our meetings is something that needs to be renegotiated, I am sorry to say that our situation requires it sooner than anticipated. Combeferre—“ he gestures to Grantaire’s roommate, who switches places with Enjolras and begins to explain the growing unrest in the city.

“We can’t sit back and let this get worse. Enjolras will elaborate on this later, but it’s our duty as the Friends of the ABC to represent the oppressed. The time is now. So, we need to start planning.”

Courfeyrac gives them some more details of the upcoming protest they’ve begun to plan, and Enjolras taps him on the shoulder, once more taking the tabletop as his podium. Grantaire’s eyes and ears snap to attention, and he tries not to start sweating profusely as he watches his new muse speak.

“—Lamarque is dead, friends. The time to act is now. If we do not, we are sentencing the people to another dynasty of injustice and misery. Who is responsible for change, if not us? That, citizens, is why we are planning this protest at his funeral. It is risky, and I commend you all for committing to this group as I have: with the utmost passion and respect for progress. The will of the people cannot be silenced as it was two hundred years ago! We can fight back, and we will.”

He’s met with cheers from the others, and Grantaire realizes that if Enjolras is the sun, then he is a lowly Icarus with melting wings, falling further and further through the sky. 

“Now,” Enjolras says, eyes glinting like steel, “let’s get to work.”

The rest of the evening passes with planning and researching and mapping, and Grantaire is grateful that he can slide close to Combeferre and unleash the anxiety that’s been building up inside of him.

“He was trying to impress you,” Combeferre says, not looking up from his medical texts. “He speaks eloquently normally but not that stilted.”

“Not _that_ stilted,” Grantaire repeats in shock. “I don’t exactly like his arguments, but his delivery was flawless.”

“I guess it worked on one level,” Enjolras says, sitting down next to Combeferre. “You’d better tell me what’s wrong with my arguments, though.” Grantaire hopes that he’s straight out admitting that’s he’s trying to impress the barista, and Enjolras hopes that his slip doesn’t immediately betray that he in fact was.

Grantaire grins, and Combeferre gets up, yawning and muttering something about an exam the next morning. “How much time do you have?” Grantaire asks, taking out his flask.

“I’m serious, R. I need to know if there are holes in my logic; if I don’t, then there’ll be holes in us.”

Grantaire and Enjolras spend a good two hours debating different topics, Grantaire taking one of his doodled-on scrap papers and writing down a list for the latter to keep. By the time they finish, Enjolras is sagging in his chair, although his eyes are still glinting. He yawns, noticing that everyone else is gone and there’s a pleasant fuzzy feeling in his chest.

“We’d better go. I need to finish proofing some things and I’m sure you’ve got an early day too,” Enjolras says, producing a pen and scrawling something new around Grantaire’s snake tattoo. “Just in case you get any more ideas,” he mumbles tiredly, and heads out the door.

Grantaire’s heart leaps for joy as he reads the numbers curled on his forearm.

**To: Enjolras [2:29 AM]**

_Here’s one. Why should we be helping if we are more privileged? Shouldn’t our support of the upper classes keep society intact and therefore their ability to enact democratic change?_

**To: Grantaire [2:30 AM]**

_Asked and answered, R. Plus, people get so excited when the word ‘revolution’ is thrown around that they usually don’t think that one through. Now go to sleep._

**To: Enjolras [7:15 AM]**

_I did, but I don’t think the same can be said for you._

**To: Grantaire [7:19 AM]**

_You’re correct. Any chance you can sell me enough espresso to fill a large cup?_

**To: Enjolras [7:20 AM]**

_No promises, but if you stop by I’ll see what I can do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will start picking up next chapter, but I think progress is being achieved! Thanks so much for reading, as always, comments, bookmarks, and kudos are appreciated!


	6. In which things get a little messy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the longest chapter yet! There's a little bit of violence in this chapter, so I wanted to warn you in case that's not your cup of tea. See the endnotes for more!

Two weeks later, the day of the protest dawns gray and cold, and Enjolras is exhausted after staying up all night preparing for it. He decides that _of course_ he needs some coffee, so he grabs the box of leaflets and heads to the Musain, pointedly ignoring the coffee machine sitting on the counter.

Grantaire is at the counter when he enters, back turned to the door and humming some old song in French. Enjolras shakes his head, realizing that he was quite obviously staring, and goes to his usual table. Cosette comes over, holding a steaming mug, and sits down across from him.

“Big day, right?” she says softly.

He nods, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to worry, _alouette_. Everything will be fine.”

“I know, I just don’t like that almost everyone I care about is there risking their lives and I’m stuck here,” she admits. “I don’t know if I could live with myself if—“

“There won’t be an if,” he replies firmly, grasping his sister’s hand. “There’s never been an if before, right?”

Cosette smiles (and for her sake Enjolras ignores the dampness in her eyes) and pushes her chair back, getting up from the table. “Just don’t get in any fights.”

“No promises.” He finishes his coffee, noticing that Grantaire is nowhere to be found. _Oh well. I can understand why. Pre-protest nerves, no doubt._

 

* * *

Lamarque’s funeral takes place in one of the small squares near the cemetery, and there are news trucks everywhere when Enjolras arrives. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are already at the rendezvous point, and the others soon follow. Grantaire and Eponine are last, coming from the café with Gavroche trailing behind.

“We’ve done all we can do to plan,” Enjolras says, heart beating wildly. “You know what you’re supposed to do, now let’s go make our voices heard.”

The group cheers, and they make their way to their assigned stations as the procession begins. Enjolras, armed with a megaphone, leaps up onto one of the limousines and begins to shout, while the others stand silently around him. Combeferre notices the policemen moving closer to the throng, and he begins to give the signal as Enjolras continues to shout into the megaphone.

“—you do not understand, my friends. We cannot allow this injustice to continue on any longer. This man was a crusader for the people, and it is our duty to make sure that his death is not in vain. It is the will of the people that causes progress, and it is the will of the people that cannot be undone!”

He takes a flying leap off the car as the crowd explodes into a riot, people surging against each other and fists flying.

“Go!” he screams, nodding his head as his group splits and heads for the Musain, their new designated safe house. Through the crowd, he can see protestors and counter-protestors fighting each other and the police marching forward as the limousines try to drive through the streets.

 _Shit._ He takes off and goes straight into the throng.

 

* * *

Grantaire, who had been trying to keep an eye on Enjolras, notices that he’s not behind the rest of them as they head for the café. _That means—oh fuck no._ He turns on his heel and sprints for the square, ignoring Joly’s screams to turn back and what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-Grantaire-you’ll-get-killed.

He wants to kick the rest of them for not noticing where their engineer is, and hopes he’s not too late. By the time he gets back to the square, he notices a heap of reddened blond curls near the embassy wall, and his stomach goes into his throat.

Enjolras is curled against the stone, eyes closed and forehead bleeding profusely. Grantaire reaches out and shakes his shoulder, grimacing at the smear of blood on the wall.

“Apollo, wake up.” Enjolras groans, eyelids fluttering and closing again. “Goddamn it, we don’t have time for this,” he mutters worriedly, deciding that the café is his best option. He hoists Enjolras over his shoulder, and runs as fast as he can.

Enjolras remembers little, except cold stone rushing to meet his face. Someone shakes him and he can’t respond because his eyelids feel as heavy as rocks. Then he’s lifted into the air, and his brain turns off again as he’s carried through the streets.

He’s sure he’s imagining the smell of coffee.

Combeferre and Joly leap up from their chairs when Grantaire bursts through the door, and Cosette lets out a shriek.

“I don’t know what happened, he wasn’t behind me and so I went back and then he was in a fucking _heap_ and—“ he trails off, trying to catch his breath.

“It’s going to be fine,” Joly says.

“It better fucking be!” Grantaire shouts, and Eponine drags him out the back door, comforting the shaking man.

“’Taire, you did the right thing. Now smoke a goddamn cigarette because you’re about to go into shock and you need to calm down.” She sits him on the curb, fingers carding through his hair. “He’s going to be fine.” 

“Ep, I don’t know what to do,” he says softly. “I am head over heels for him.”

Eponine snickers at that. “Honey, you really thought we didn’t know? You’ve seemed happier recently. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.”

“Shit,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “I didn't think it was that obvious, I just— don’t think it’s the same for him.”

“Why don’t you ask, idiot?” she says fondly. “You’d get a lot more done if you opened your mouth.”

Grantaire pulls her into a hug.

* * *

 

Enjolras wakes up half an hour later, at which time Combeferre pronounces the meeting they were supposed to have that evening cancelled. He’s glad he did, because once they manage to get Enjolras back to his apartment, their leader’s skin is pale and he’s swaying on his feet.

“Next time can we please try not to get a concussion?” Courfeyrac asks, plopping onto the bed next to Enjolras. “We do worry, you know.”

Enjolras moans into the pillow. “Yes, Courf. I intentionally went and got myself beaten up. God knows I love having broken ribs.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “D’you want more painkillers?”

“Yes, Courf. The answer is always yes.” Courfeyrac nods, planting a kiss on the part of Enjolras’ forehead that isn’t covered in bandages, and dashes off.

Cosette beats him back, coming in with his favorite red jacket and a mug of tea. “I managed to get the blood out of the collar,” she says, setting the mug on Enjolras’ nightstand. “Are you doing okay?”

“As fine as I can be,” he mumbles, and Cosette wraps her arms around his neck.

“You scared us all to death, idiot,” she whispers, trying not to hug his ribs too tightly. 

Enjolras feels a pang of guilt at the expression on his sister’s face, and is silently grateful that he wasn’t awake to see their initial panic. “Did they tell you what happened? Because I don’t remember all of it.”

“You went into the crowd for some unknown, baffling reason, got yourself beaten and slammed into a wall, which broke two of your ribs and gave you a concussion, and you probably would have gotten trampled if Grantaire hadn’t been paying attention.” That was Combeferre, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Grantaire found me?”

“Yes,” Cosette says, catching the bottle of painkillers that Courfeyrac flings at her. “Lucky he did, too. You could have been hurt much worse.”

He swallows two of the pills, biting his lip as he thinks. _Of all of them, it was Grantaire that noticed? Grantaire, who has only been a part of this cause for two fucking weeks._ He found himself caught between hope, gratitude, and an inexplicable sense of disappointment. _It was probably because he felt bad, or he wanted to prove himself or some shit like that. Not because he actually cares about me._ Enjolras had grudgingly admitted to himself that he likes the idea of some dramatic, sweeping gesture, and he’d be damned if he told anyone that he wanted this to be it. Maybe it was the concussion talking, but he wanted Grantaire with him.

His roommate, his sister, and his best friend leave the room as he sinks further into the pillows, wallowing in his confusion as he drops off to sleep.

Cosette, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac sit in the kitchen, nursing cups of coffee.

“He’s really hung up over him, isn’t he?” Cosette asks softly, and Courfeyrac nods.

“I thought we would have to do some executive meddling, but deep down, they clearly know they love each other. It’s just a matter of time.”

“They really need to pull their heads out of their asses,” Combeferre says tiredly. “Time isn’t always guaranteed in our line of work.”

“I wish they would quit pining and fucking do something about it,” Cosette growls in frustration. “I want my brother to be happy, and I think Grantaire is the key.”

“Well, let’s lock them in a room together until they stop pining and start making out on a table,” Courfeyrac says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Combeferre gives him a look over the rim of his coffee mug. “No, Courf.”

Cosette slides her phone over to the two of them. “Look.”

**To: Cosette [4:19 PM]**

_Grantaire almost had a mental breakdown about E today. I think that’s a hint._

**To: Eponine [4:22 PM]**

_I could tell that something was off with my brother. Fucking idiots, those two. I knew it._

**To: Cosette [4:25 PM]**

_What do we do?_

**To: Eponine [4:26 PM]**

_Not sure yet. But I think we might not have to do anything._

Courfeyrac pumps a fist into the air. “Bossuet and Joly owe me money!”

“Not yet, Courf,” says Combeferre. “They aren’t an official couple.”

“You bet on Grantaire and my brother?” asks Cosette in mock horror. “I could have gotten in on that, you shits!”

“Well, regardless,” begins Combeferre, “we need to find an alternate place to meet since Corinth is a no go.” Police had ransacked the bar and they’d nearly arrested Gavroche when he’d returned to case the area.

“I think I know a place,” Cosette says wryly. “And I think I have a plan for the two lovebirds as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I might be planning some deleted scenes from this fic so if you'd like one in particular please comment below! Kudos, bookmarks, comments, etc. are all welcomed.


	7. In which things finally converge

_God bless Cosette,_ Enjolras thinks as he enters the back room of the Musain. Since Inspector Javert (or as Courf liked to call him, Inspector Fuckass) had completely obliterated any chances of them using Corinth, they’d had to scramble to find someplace new.

Or they would have, if the Musain’s other two owners hadn’t been cajoled into sharing by Cosette. The others didn’t complain; they spent most of their time there already and the pastries were a plus.

Still, the events of the past few days had left a stabbing pain behind his eye and too much caffeine flowing through his veins.

Luckily, Enjolras is the first to arrive, which he’d all but predicted, given the patterns of his friends. He mentally places a bet on Courfeyrac and Grantaire being the latest, and sets his bag on a free table. The back room is large enough, warmed by a small fireplace and stocked with—instruments?

His bemusement is short-lived once he sees the small piano in the corner. His fingers take the keys almost instantly, and he begins to play a piece he’s kept in the back of his mind from his childhood, his repressed emotions finally letting loose in a frenzy of slammed keys and ferocious melody. He’s pissed—at himself, at Grantaire, at the entire situation he’s managed to land himself in. He refuses to seem weak.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but his convalescence made him realize that he’s madly in love with the dark-haired, cynical man who makes his coffee so perfectly. And he hates him for it.

“Impressive, Apollo,” says Grantaire, leaning against the doorframe as Enjolras lets his fingers trail off the keys. “I didn’t know you were musically inclined.” His hair is mussed and his apron is smeared with flour, and his lips are quirked in a wry smile that makes Enjolras want to slap him. _I hope you know what you’re doing to me, you shit._

“My parents insisted,” he replies, bitterness edging his tone. “For once, I was glad they’d forced me into doing something.” He plops into a chair, rubbing his forehead absently.

Grantaire shifts awkwardly, hands thrust into his pockets. “Listen, about the protest—I didn’t mean to overstep—“ Enjolras waves his hand, cutting him off.

“No, thank you, R. Combeferre told me what happened. If it weren’t for you, I might not be here.” His stomach swirls as his mind begs Grantaire to understand what he’s hinting at, how important Grantaire is to him and that he would have done the same.

“Well, I had to make myself useful somehow,” Grantaire says, voice tinged with the self-loathing he’d been so desperate to hide. “Given the fact that I’m not exactly welcome—“

“Oh, would you give that shit a rest, Grantaire? All you do is cut yourself down and I cannot stand it,” Enjolras says hotly. “I’m sick of watching it when it is patently untrue, and you know it.”

“You don’t get it, Apollo. You never will,” Grantaire says, turning away from the blond. “I bet you’ve never hated yourself a day in your life.”

“I’m trying to thank you, you absolute fuck.”

“And I accept your gratitude. But I don’t accept your help, because I don’t deserve it.” He makes a move to leave, and Enjolras leaps up, turning Grantaire around by his slumped shoulders.

“ _Shut the fuck up,”_ Enjolras growls, and kisses him.

If the rest of Les Amis attempt to open the door to the back room and find it locked, then they make no mention of it when the two appear several minutes later looking somewhat disheveled.

Courfeyrac immediately begins to wolf-whistle (which elicits some very creative insults from the pair) and Combeferre tries to contain his joy at the fact that he just won a very, very fat betting pot.

Cosette and Eponine simply smirk over their coffee mugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this somewhat shorter but no less sweary chapter! This one was a bear to write, which is probably why it's so brief. The last one should be up in a matter of days, and will hopefully be much longer; thank you for reading! As always, comments, bookmarks, and kudos are welcomed. Also, if anyone would like to know what Enjolras was playing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lORWT3Kctw .


	8. In which things wrap up

_It’s funny,_ Enjolras thinks, watching Grantaire perform his first gig since the protest, _how much can change in a month._ If you had asked him before the first time he set foot in the Musain, he would have scoffed in your face and dispatched you to fetch more coffee.

Now, there’s a mix of pride and affection rumbling in his heart as he watches Grantaire’s fingers curl around the guitar strings, hears his honeyed voice channel the same familiar passion into the lyrics he’s singing.

Cosette leaves Marius’ side, coming over to where her brother stands and leans her head against his arm. “You look happy,” she says, peering up at him.

Enjolras laughs, “I think I am, _alouette._ I am.”

“Good,” she replies, absently twisting the ring on her finger. “I’ve already told him that if he hurts you I’ll kick his ass. And then yours if you hurt him right back.” She pecks him on the cheek and flits back to Marius, dropping every hint of malice from her voice as she teases him.

Enjolras sighs and goes back to watching Grantaire. Nothing’s perfect right now, he knows—there’s still more to be done with the protests, with his paper, and he still insists on working himself to death. He’s not perfect, no matter how much he tries to be.

Still, he knows it’s enough for now.

Grantaire finishes his song, smiling rakishly as the crowd cheers, and turns to look directly at his Apollo.

“This one’s for you, babe.”

He launches into a cover of Your Song, and Enjolras’ heart swells happily. He remembers mentioning that it was one of his favorites in passing, but he had never expected Grantaire to remember, let alone play it.

_I hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind that I put down in words_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world_

Grantaire finishes the song, hopping off the stage among the crowd, and Enjolras pushes his way over to him, eyes glinting.

“Did you like it?” Grantaire asks breathlessly, and Enjolras can only stand there, mouth struggling to form a coherent sentence.

“I—it was _perfect_ ,” he stammers.

“Good,” Grantaire grins. “I would have hated being forced to serenade you with Queen. I know how much you hate the monarchy---“

Enjolras rolls his eyes and kisses him passionately. Grantaire hums in delight, carding his fingers through Enjolras’ hair.

“So, food? I’m starving and you probably haven’t eaten in what, twenty hours?”

“Twenty-eight,” Enjolras admits sheepishly.

“Chinese it is, then,” Grantaire announces happily, and strides out of the café, boyfriend in tow.

They’re laying on Grantaire’s beat-up couch an hour later, with takeout boxes scattered everywhere and a shitty movie playing on the television.

“Thank you,” Enjolras mutters sleepily, head dropped onto Grantaire’s chest.

“For what, Apollo?” he replies, eyes on the flickering screen.

“Take your pick.”

Grantaire laughs at that, picking at a stubborn bit of royal icing on his palm. “I'm going to go with rendering the great Enjolras speechless with my music, and you’re welcome.”

This, he thinks, is perfection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for sticking with this fic until its conclusion! I've decided to make this its own verse so there will be one-shots and possibly more chaptered fics using this setup, so be on the lookout! Thank you again, so much! <3


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